Thus I wandered, week after week, as fancy led me, being sure of a good reception in each village I stopped at, for my fame as an artist-musician preceded me, and wherever I stayed for the night a crowd would invariably assemble outside my window, ready for me to step out flute in hand when I had finished my evening meal. One day I found a peculiarly effective “bit” to transfer to my canvas. It was a lonely, mountainous district I was in, and I had tumbled across some finely-coloured rocks, picturesquely-disposed trees, a ruined chapel, and a turbulent, dashing, little waterfall. I unstrapped my light-folding easel and set to work. It was a beautiful day, and I toiled on for several hours, singing and whistling quietly to keep myself in countenance and spirits, for I did not see a soul in this lonely spot. At last I began to grow tired of my painting, and, as the shadows were beginning to lengthen, I packed up, and was about to foot it to the nearest village some four miles distant, when, mingled with the peculiar noises made by the sound of falling water, I fancied I could hear the moaning either of a human being or some animal, apparently in great distress or pain. Listening, I caught the sound of what I took to be a faint groan! I placed my kit upon the ground and looked around. At first I could see nothing; but after a moment’s search I discovered an old man sitting among the rocks, moaning and groaning at some serious injury he had apparently received. Forgetting where I was, I addressed the old man in English. “Hallo, old fellow, what’s amiss with you?” He suddenly brought me to myself by replying in good English (although spoken with a foreign accent), and informing me that whilst sitting under a rocky cliff, contemplating the beautiful solitude, a large portion of stone had become detached, and rolling upon his foot, had severely crushed and cut it. He was a man apparently seventy years of age, with an aquiline nose, piercing dark eyes, whose depth and brilliancy were enhanced by the whiteness of his over-hanging eyebrows, and a fine flowing white beard. All this I took in with an artist’s eye, and made a mental note not to lose an opportunity, by and by, of painting such a wonderfully fine head, if the old man would allow me. I tore up my pocket-handkerchief, bound up the poor crushed foot, after bathing it with cool water from the river, and set my old friend, who was profuse in his thanks, upon his feet. I ought perhaps say foot, for he could not place his injured foot to the ground, and consequently was unable to walk. I was in a dilemma; the nearest village being a smart hour’s walk away, down in the valley. “Cheer up, father,” said I; “allow me to try and carry you a little; possibly we may meet some one as we descend the road.” “Nay, nay, my son,” the old man replied, “leave me. Perhaps after a rest I may be able to put my foot to the ground and proceed on my way.”